The Tea Party - A Novel of Horror (31 page)

“I think we oughta go see what’s back there, in the trees,” he said.

“What trees?” said Ian, peering myopically around.

“I ain’t climbin no wall,” Dirk said. “Besides, we’ve been on the hill before. Unless,” he said, suddenly brightening, “you mean we sneak around to] Muir’s place and get his horse or somethin.”

“Hey,” Archie said brightly. “Hey, okay!”

“Gee, I don’t know,” Ian said, sniffing and pushing at his glasses. “I don’t know. My mother wouldn’t like that. She’d kill me, you know? If I was caught in the Hollow, she’d kill me. She says Mr. Muir’s a—”

“No,” Keith said. “We’re not going there, and we’re not climbing any walls.”

“Then what the hell trees are you talkin about, idiot?” Archie said.

“Those trees over there, stupid,” he said, and pointed to the heavy stand of hickory and birch, oak and willow that dotted the rise behind the spot they had made into their playing field earlier that afternoon.

Dirk looked, and scratched his head. “Where the hell did they come from?”

“UPS came by. They were just delivered,” Keith said. “Boy, what a stupid question.”

“But I don’t remember—”

Suddenly, Archie grabbed Dirk’s arm and pointed. “There!” he said breathlessly, leaning forward, squinting. “Over there. Did you see it?”

“What?”

Ian stood close to Keith, frowning but saying nothing.

“A lady,” Archie said, already starting forward. “I saw a lady back there. Maybe,” and he grinned, “we’ll see somethin good.”

Before he could be stopped he was trotting away toward the trees, Dirk hesitating, then following. Keith made to join them, and was stopped by Ian’s hand.

“What’s the matter?” he asked kindly. “They’re only trees, Ian. They won’t hurt ya.”

“But they weren’t there before,” he said, wincing as if expecting to be hit. “They weren’t there, Keith.”

“Sure they were,” he said, slapping the boy’s arm lightly. “We were playing, you just didn’t notice them, that’s all.”

“My mother—”

“—won’t even know you’re gone. She’s looking at old stuff in the house, right? Old chairs, old forks, old fogies.” He laughed at Ian’s grin. “See? We’ll find out what Archie spotted, then come right back, okay?”

Ian was still doubtful.

“The chief says it’s okay.” He glowered, and pursed his lips. “Unless you want a torture, kid.”

Ian relaxed. “Okay, chief.” They had covered less than ten feet, however, before he stopped Keith again. “What did Archie mean, about seein that lady doin stuff?”

“I don’t know. He’s got a dirty mind. She’s just probably pickin flowers.”

Another twenty feet.

“Keith, there aren’t any flowers there. Like there wasn’t any trees.”

Keith looked down; the darksoft
whispering
made him smile.

5:30

In the VW, Bud waited patiently on the bare shoulder while a handful of cars, two pickups, and a station wagon loaded with kids pressed through the gate and headed back for Deerford. Two of the drivers waved to him, one calling out with a harsh laugh that he had probably missed all the best goodies, but he only waved back and smiled inanely and raced the sputtering engine until he was able to pass through. He parked beside Douglas’s Jeep, had his hand on the door latch and one leg lifted before he froze. He was too anxious to get out; he would create the wrong impression if he plowed straight into the mob, hunting for Ollie. He had to calm. He had to get hold of himself and be absolutely calm.

He had left the Retirement Room only when he heard Ollie slam the front door, and he couldn’t believe it when he saw her walking boldly up the street toward the highway, all dressed in white like she was some kind of bride, her hair loose and licking at the air, her hips swinging back and forth like she was advertising herself to the first man who’d look.

And they’d look; damn, he knew they would look.

He had shouted at her wordlessly, impotently, then walked around the counter by the door and pulled up the loose floorboard to expose the safe they had had embedded in a steel-lined concrete sheath. The combination came without him thinking about it, and he didn’t pause until he had the canvas bank sack out, the lock opened, and the money from the week’s sales in his hand. She had been at him for days to deposit it before they had a robbery; he had procrastinated. Why should he go when he only had to drive back just to get the household money? That wasn’t the way you did things, she had said. But he hadn’t gone, and now he was glad. This money, even without counting it, was going to take him a long way from Deerford, and the woman who had betrayed him.

He had taken his time dressing.

Then, while he was wandering through the apartment, saying goodbye to a bench that he discovered meant nothing to him, he thought about taking the bankbook too, and decided that was being too cruel— Ollie being the expert would know all about that—and drove the VW out to the county road.

He didn’t notice Sitter wasn’t in his usual place.

He saw a blinding white Mercedes pull into the drive and recognized it as the one belonging to Clark the lawyer. He made no attempt to call when the big man slid out, straightened his tie, and walked around the side of the house. He didn’t care. Clark the lawyer was someone who was less than a ghost in his life.

Time, he thought. No more stalling.

He opened the door and got out, closed it quietly, and looked with frank amazement at all the lights burning in the house. It made him think of Casey, and made him wonder if Lockhart had had enough of this place, too, and had taken off for better parts. He smiled. Casey, he thought, was more than likely still out on a drunk, or hung over in a cave somewhere.

The first thing he had to do was find Parrish. He had decided that Ollie probably wouldn’t sell the Bazaar on a bet, and he would have to disappoint the old man, apologize but explain nothing.

Then he would find Ollie and tell her goodbye.

He faltered.

That was going to be harder than he thought. Six good years down the old tubes. Maybe he should be more charitable. Maybe he should give her a second chance.

But she’s pregnant. She’s been pregnant for five months, maybe more, and she didn’t tell him a thing.

Fuck her, he thought, and giggled—somebody sure as hell did.

A minute’s thought, and he decided to forget her. She didn’t need a goodbye, or a smile, or even a wave as he drove out of her life. She obviously didn’t need anything about him.

Hesitantly, then, he began to search for Parrish and get it over with so he could get the hell away. But when he walked into the yard and saw the few remaining people—where did they all go, for crying out loud?—he could not shake the feeling they were all staring at him, pointing at him and sniggering. Muffling a cry behind a sweat-slicked hand, he ran back to the car, slumped over the roof, and clenched his fists against his head. Stupid; he was being stupid. Jesus, did he really want to leave Ollie, Deerford, the shop? Deep down, did he really want to go? Maybe it would be better if he just went home. He could leave the keys on the dash so she wouldn’t have to walk, and he could walk back himself.

He needed time to think again; he needed time to decide.

You’d be lousy in a corporation, Yardley, he thought as he started up the drive; you can’t even decide when it’s time to take a shit.

At the gate he reached down for the latch, and his hand cracked against stone. Blinking, he stepped away and looked down.

“Damn,” he muttered, and looked left and right before he knew he wasn’t dreaming.

The wall was there, but it was unbroken, and shoulder high.

4

6:00

Ollie was nowhere to be seen, and Liz finally grabbed for Doug’s hand. “Well, that was just wonderful,” she said flatly, pulling him steadily away from the tent. “That was really great.” She refused to release him when he tried to yank away, and stopped only when they were clear of the few people still hanging around the depleted buffet. “Do you have any other great ideas up your sleeve?”

He knew full well he had erred in trying to antagonize Parrish. At a town meeting the discussion would be, in the long run, much more profitable. But at least, he said, more people are aware now than before of what was going on; that in itself can’t be all that bad.

“Oh no,” she agreed, but barely. “But you saw the way that man handled them, didn’t you? By the time he gets through with them at the meeting—if it ever happens, which frankly I doubt—he’ll have no trouble convincing them it’s the best thing that ever happened to Deerford, if not the world.”

He glared at the ground, kicking himself for losing control, and waited for Liz’s complaining to fade. When it did, they stood side by side and searched again through the remaining faces for signs of Ollie. He was puzzled now; she should have joined them by this time.

A breeze shoved his hair down over his eyes. He snapped his head back and fumbled for a cigarette.

The breeze was too steady; the flame wouldn’t stay lit long enough for him to catch the tobacco.

“Hey, take it easy,” she said in weary apology, stroking his arm with one finger. “I’m just getting frustrated, that’s all.” A disturbed glance at Winter-rest, at the windows blinking as shadows passed behind them.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s the day and—”

“It’s strange,” she said quietly, as if she hadn’t heard him, “but I get the terrible feeling someone’s watching us.”

He understood, covered her hand, and squeezed it. “I think it’s time. We’d better find the kids and leave.”

Her head moved; it might have been a nod.

He looked then for the ballgame, and it was gone. There was no one on the grass, no one near the trees. When Liz saw where he was looking, and saw the empty lawn, she scowled, and put her hands to her face as if to keep the muscles there from jumping too hard.

“Inside,” he suggested when she began turning in a slow circle, searching for her children. “I’ll bet, knowing the Gang, they went inside for a little mischief-making. You go check there, okay? I’ll look around out here. If you find them, tie them up and stick by the back door until I get back.”

She didn’t smile. She hesitated, then whispered angrily, “I’ll kill him,” and hurried off, slipping neatly through the short line at the door with an apologetic smile and soft words he could not hear. He watched for a second the space where she had stood, on the verge of deciding to go with her on the off chance she might be in trouble; then he shook it off and walked slowly around the tent toward the lefthand corner of the house. It was still bothering him, and while he would indeed keep an eye out for Ollie and the children, he decided to check the house once more. Just once. To see if it was only a trick of the light.

On the south side he was alone. He wiped his hands against his trousers before brushing them lightly over the weathered grey stone, feeling, testing, until he had covered nearly fifteen feet of its length. The window-sills were just at eye level, but he did not look in. He was waiting for the oddity to make itself clear, and just as he reached the corner he had it.

He shook his head, and rubbed at a temple; not only was it unlikely he had missed it all the times he had been here before, it was impossible.

A voice called his name urgently.

He leaned closer, his nose less than an inch from the stone, and he poked, pushed, traced a thumb along the wall.

“Hey, Doug!”

He looked to his left, annoyed, and saw Bud running toward him.

“Doug, hey!”

Backing away from the house, he waited, looking sideways at the sprinting younger man. Here too was something out of kilter, something about the way he charged and the way his hands punched at the air. He closed his eyes, opened them, and realized the perspective was all wrong. Bud seemed too far away, yet it was only seconds before he was holding onto the edge of the house, hair matted over his brow, chest swelling for air.

“Doug,” he gasped, swallowed and shook his head. “Doug, something’s wrong around here.”

Doug took his shoulder and gripped it, shook it gently. “Take it easy, Bud, take it easy.”

Bud grimaced; it was supposed to be a smile.

“Okay, what are you talking about? What’s wrong?”

Bud pointed vaguely behind him. “The wall.” He tried to stand, then fell back against the house, his hands pressed hard against his sides. “Look at the wall.”

“All right, take it easy,” he said again, smiling nervously. “God, you’re a hell of a mess.”

Bud shook off the hand and pointed. “Goddamnit, Doug, will you look at the wall!”

He looked, looked away and back, and saw what Bud meant—the wall was six feet high now, and the gate was gone as if the stone had grown together and sealed them in. He took another step back and scanned its length as far as he could see through the grey gloom of the lowering clouds. Mist freckled his cheeks, and he brushed at it impatiently. The breeze ruffled his hair damply.

“No,” he said automatically.

“I tried,” Bud said, breathing easier now. “It’s no trick, Doug. That wall . . . it’s changed!”

Doug waved weakly. “It couldn’t. Not in just a couple of hours. My god, do you have any idea how long something like that takes to build? Do you have—”

“Jesus!” Bud grabbed him roughly and shoved him forward. “Then go look for yourself, damnit! The friggin wall has grown!”

He stopped himself after a dozen running steps. From here the stone looked black and shining, as if muddy water were trickling off its jagged top. Then he felt a rumbling beneath his feet and blinked his astonishment as the wall stretched even higher.

It was no illusion; the wall was growing.

“Jesus,” Bud whispered beside him. “Jesus.”

He put a fist lightly to his mouth while he tried to think, dropping the hand to rub at his chest thoughtfully while he returned to the house and leaned against it.

“What is it?” Bud asked, unable to look away from the wall.

Trapped, Doug thought; we’re being caged in.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But take a look at this while you’re at it.”

Bud stared at the place where Doug’s hand rested, frowned, and shook his head. “I don’t see anything.”